


Aromatherapy

by AngelsInTheSand



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Character, Multi, Panic Attacks, Referenced Death, Referenced Sexual Assault, Referenced violence, implied sex, reference to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelsInTheSand/pseuds/AngelsInTheSand
Summary: Panic attacks hit different when you live in a wasteland.
Kudos: 2





	Aromatherapy

Fig sat alone in her tent, shaking, sobbing. The moon outside was most definitely high above, and the camp was quiet, with only the occasional snore or sound of sex from a few tents away. Fig felt truly and painfully isolated, even surrounded by so many people.

She could never fully understand their way of life, their way of thoughtless cruelty. And tonight, a vision had shaken her from her sleep, and planted fears in her mind. Fears she didn’t know were there. Perhaps, the vision created the fear just a few minutes ago. Regardless, it was here now. And Fig trembled.

A vision of her own demise, her own assault, waiting right outside her canvas home. At any moment, someone could come in, have her, slaughter her, and she would be found in the morning. Nobody would know, nobody would care. It would be over in minutes, and her entire being would boil down to those minutes.

Of course, there is nobody outside the tent. Nobody is plotting her demise. Nobody is plotting a secret attack. But the vision has planted the seed of doubt, and the seed sprouts into a torrential bloom of panic.

Fig sits upright, wiping her face with a pelt. Even in the darkness, she knows her face is raw, with bloodshot eyes, and snot running down her face. She has seen the face before in many others as they faced their mortality. An exhausted, terrified, confused face.

And from the seed of doubt, a new crop blooms adjacent: guilt.

She tries to calm herself, petting her own hair as if it would help her relax. The petting motion, a firm hand massaging her scalp and playing with her hair, usually calms her down. Many times she has had others do it for her sake. But it doesn’t seem to have the same effect when she does it for herself.

For a moment, she considers leaving her tent for The Humungus’. The Gayboy Berserkers watching out for trespassers would let her through without a second glance, and she could spend the rest of the night safe. She could spend the night pinned under his large arms, completely at ease. But she won’t.

She won’t let herself fall prey to dependence. As much as she wishes she had company to keep her safe at night, her own independence means much more. She briefly considers, again, how calming it would be for him to press his arms down on her, heavy and grounding.

She wishes the blankets in her tent were heavier. Maybe if they were weighted, she wouldn’t think about fleeing her own tent. But they aren’t, and she is, and that’s life.

She takes a few breaths, in and out, holding and releasing, for several moments. By then, her tears have dried up, and her face feels uncomfortably tacky. With no one to turn to for comfort, she begins digging through her collection of treasures.

There in the corner of her tent lies what used to be a spice rack. The little bottles that adorn the furniture are hardly filled, just barely covering the translucent bottoms of the jars. Some things are hard to come by in the wasteland, so when you find it, you bottle it and save it.

She runs her fingers over the lids: cork. No doubt they would begin dry-rotting soon, and Fig would have to transfer her treasures to new holders. Her hand steadies on one bottle, and she pulls it out of the rack, holding it between her hands like she was holding a little mouse. Her fingertips found the cork and pulled it out with a satisfying pop. Fig held the bottle under her nose and breathed deeply.

_Memories of morning sunlight charged her brain. Memories of her old tribe, friendly voices outside of her tent as the morning sun all but cooked her in the canvas. She recalled the friendly old face that would sit in the sand, all fine lines and wrinkles, and brew coffee. He would be there all morning, brewing coffee and making sure she always had a cup to sip on before scavenging. He would slap her on the back with a wide, toothless smile, exclaiming to her that she had to bring him back something unique. Every time, she would bring him something new: a spool of thread, someone’s long-forgotten chore list, or even a button in the shape of a star. And every time, the man would smile again, throw open his arms, and embrace her. The gifts found their way into his tent, neatly added to his collection._

Fig found her breath catching in her throat when she found she could not recall the old man’s name.

She replaced the cork lid back in the bottle, resetting it back on the spice rack before retrieving another one. This one did not open as easily, but it popped open nonetheless.

_Eyes appeared in Fig’s mind, dark and appraising, with eyelashes like curtains to flutter away unpleasant things. They quickly were followed by a nose, lips, a hairline. And Fig recalled the features more clearly. A woman Fig had known from her own tribe. More than once, they had shared a tent, and Fig would find herself snuggled up with the warm body, smelling pleasantly of sunlight and mixed spices. Fig loved pressing her nose into her shoulder, smelling the day on her neck._

_So long ago was the last time Fig had seen the woman. Fig wondered if she still lived, if she still smelled of sunlight and spices._

_Fig wondered if the woman would look upon her in her current position amongst marauders. Wondered if the woman’s dark eyebrows would knit together, if the eyes would narrow upon her, and she would announce her disgust in Fig’s path of life. Wondered if the nights spent in each other’s arms, lips on eyelids and hands on thighs would be forgotten with her betrayal._

_She wondered if the woman would take her into her arms and croon to her, tell her that it’s all alright, and that she understood that survival comes first. Or if the woman would stand at a distance, staring at Fig like an animal yet to be discovered._

_Fig knew she would deserve it._

She sighed breathily as she recapped the bottle, placing it back in its place. Another bottle was removed from the rack, and this time the cork almost broke into pieces upon removal. Dry rot worked fast with this bottle. Fig held the bottle under her nose, breathing deeply.

_She remembers the day she received this bottle. The day a member of her old tribe returned from a hunting trip with an old backpack. She had gone through the bag with a few other members of the tribe, raffling items off for cans of food and jugs of water._

_A pocket knife that still folded in and out went for two cans of food. A pair of pliers went for half a jug of water, and when the scavenger revealed she also had a screwdriver, she became the owner of the other half jug._

_The scavenger then found a small bottle tucked into one of the pockets of the bag, halfway filled with brown granules. She opened the bottle, sniffing it and looking perturbed, before offering it up for free. Fig claimed the item and happily accepted the bottle, smelling the contents for herself. She always loved sharp, pleasant smells to cover the smells of petrol, fire, and death. These granules far exceeded her expectations._

_The scent was hot, like it was depositing spice directly into her brain. She had to turn then, and found herself in a sneezing fit. As soon as the fit concluded, she was breathing in the scent again, completely happy. An older tribe member would recognize the bottle’s contents as something called “sin of men” and Fig would swoon over the name for many nights. How could something evidently so sinful be so delightful._

_The dilemma of mankind, Fig thinks, that something so wonderful to the senses would be labeled a sin._

Fig shakes loose from the memory, smiling happily down at the little bottle, twisting it between her fingers and listening to the little granules shifting inside.

Now relaxed, Fig replaces the bottle back on the spice rack, returning to her bed of furs and pelts. She rests her head and releases a small breath, still tense, but not panicked.

Perhaps she’ll request a new sleeping arrangement from The Humungus at some point: to sleep far, far away from the rest of the marauders. To pitch her tent so deep in the wasteland, nobody will ever find her again. And she can enjoy the sin of men, unbothered, until the sun burns out.


End file.
